


Don't Mean You're Any Less

by FroldGapp



Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Angst, Christmas, Emotional Hurt, Galra Keith (Voltron), Gen, Hurt Keith (Voltron), Orphan Keith (Voltron), Sad Keith (Voltron), Socially Awkward Keith (Voltron)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-17
Updated: 2017-12-17
Packaged: 2019-02-15 19:01:51
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,851
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13037439
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FroldGapp/pseuds/FroldGapp
Summary: A trip to a festive market with a fairground should be every child's dream, but Christmas hasn't always been kind to Keith. Not since his dad went away.





	Don't Mean You're Any Less

**Author's Note:**

> British English so ' instead of ". I do relent on trashcan though :p
> 
> (no beta, will fix errors as I see em)

The streets were packed. Food stalls billowed steam into the chill air, children rushed between legs, and last-minute shoppers darted from store to store, paper bags clutched in gloved hands. From the festive fairground at the top of the street came joyful screams and the heavy scents of roasted chestnuts and candyfloss.

Keith half-tripped half-ran after his foster father, a Mr Clark who was tall, quietly spoken and perpetually bothered. The Clark children, both older than Keith and uninterested in him for that reason, trotted ahead.

‘Keep up, Keith,’ Mr Clark said, tugging sharply Keith’s arm like he was a bothersome loose thread.

Keith jogged to keep from falling. His feet squeaked inside his too-large, but gloriously red and shining snowboots. ‘Sorry, sir.’

‘Don’t call me “sir”, Keith,’ said Mr Clark, guiding them both past a woman in stilts who was handing out flyers to passersby. ‘The papers are almost through. Call me “Dad.”’

Keith stopped in his tracks and was almost yanked off his feet by a distracted Mr Clark. The man sighed and turned. ‘Keith.’

‘Hello, you!’ It was the stilt walker. She smiled down at Keith with bright, dancing eyes all full of reflected fairy-lights. Her long scarlet coat sparkled with thousands of sequins.

‘No, thank you,’ said Mr Clark, attempting to ease Keith away. ‘Not interested.’

‘And how old are you?’

The pair stopped again. Keith cleared his throat. He used to hold up fingers, but Mr Clark had said it was babyish. So instead he said, ‘Just turned seven, ma’am.’

The stilt walker drew herself up, placing her hands on her hips. ‘Well, aren’t you a doll? Such a polite little man!’

A heavy hand landed on Keith’s shoulder. ‘Do you hear that, Keith? She says you’re polite, isn’t that something?’

‘Yes, Mr–’ Keith swallowed. His heart gave a single, violent thud beneath his yellow raincoat. ‘Yes.’

The stilt walker pressed her lips together, her eyes gleaming at Keith. She reached deep inside the pocket of her wonderful scarlet coat and pulled out a piece of paper. ‘For the bumper raffle,’ she said. With a smile as warm as mulled wine, she pressed the ticket into Keith’s ungloved hands. She folded his little fingers around it, pressing them tight. ‘It’s at eight,’ she said to Mr Clark, who checked his watch with a scowl. ‘Good luck, little man.’

‘Thank you, ma’am,’ Keith called to the retreating stilt walker. She winked back at him as the crowd parted around her. His fingers uncurled around the ticket.

 _23  
_ _Twenty-three_

Keith gasped. ‘It’s my birthday!’ He pulled on Mr Clark’s sleeve. ‘Look!’ he said, pointing at the numbers with red, numb fingers. He’d left his gloves in the car and Mr Clark _wasn’t about to go back and get them_ _now_ _was he._ ‘Two and three! That’s my birthday!’

Mr Clark grimaced and checked his watch again. Keith’s smile faltered.

‘These things are always nonsense,’ said the man. ‘Cheap plastic prizes you can pick up at any gas station. Give me the ticket, Keith.’ He held out his hand.

Hesitation was never good, Keith had learned in his brief time in the foster system. Prompt, precise obeyence was expected and praised. But the ticket warmed his palms as surely as his father’s hands once had and he fiercely wanted to keep it. He’d never won a prize in his life, but this ticket felt special. He _knew_ it was special; could feel it somewhere deep inside himself. Mr Clark barked his name, then darted his eyes to check for any damning attention. Mr Clark _hated_ attention. Keith was making him wait. The stilt walker had called Keith a “polite little man” and he wasn’t about to prove her wrong. He nodded and surrendered the ticket to Mr Clark. It had been crumpled into a messy ball. Keith was unaware he’d gripped it so tightly.

‘Good boy,’ said Mr Clark, and tossed the ticket in a nearby trashcan.

‘Dad!’ yelled Rudy, the eldest of the Clark children. ‘Dina and I want to go to the fairground now. Can we?’

‘Please dad?’ implored Dina, who was tearing impressive chunks from a chocolate filled crepe and pushing them into her mouth.

‘Don’t talk with your mouth full, Dina. And yes, Rudy you may go, but you have to take your new brother. Daddy needs to get you some extra bits and pieces.’

Dramatic groans issued from Keith’s two new siblings, but they knew better than to protest. Mr Clark, though quiet, brooked no argument. Not like Keith’s dad, who could be coerced with a poorly delivered head massage or a promise to feed Bessie the Wolfhound for a week. But Keith’s dad was dead and Bessie sent off to a shelter the same time Keith was. When he first arrived to Connecticut, picture of Bessie clutched tightly to his chest, Rudy had told Keith that Bessie was probably dead now too. Nobody wanted somebody else’s dumb hound.

‘Come on, short stuff,’ said Rudy. Dina held out her hand. Her mittens were caked with gooey chocolate. With a gentle nudge to the back from Mr Clark, Keith hurried forward and took Dina’s hand. She smiled at him broadly, teeth edged in mashed up crepe and chocolate. He smiled back. It was nice to see Dina smile. It was nice to see her smile at him. ‘Let’s go,’ she said.

They were fast walkers, just like their father, but they pushed through the crowd with none of his caution. Keith was jostled by oblivious thighs and battered by carelessly swung bags as the trio rushed towards the fairground. His squeaking boots drew a few laughs from the people they passed, and Keith scampered to better hide against Dina’s side. He was six years old, a _polite little man_ , but he desperately wanted to push his thumb into his mouth.

‘Come _on_ , Dina,’ complained Rudy, glaring back at them both.

Dina growled. ‘I’m trying! I’m the one with slow poke here.’ She pulled on Keith’s hand, her mitten a vice that crushed his chilled fingers so they stung. ‘Come on, dummy.’

Keith ran to keep up, his breath puffing out in small clouds. They passed other children his age; gathered between laughing parents, riding high on broad shoulders. Red cheeks, neat hair, thick gloves in all colours, all designs. Adults seemed to catch his eye; knew that he was out of place. Different. His heart ached for his father and the low ceiling of their desert house. Christmas was a morning walk and dinner together watching Watership Down. Christmas was new socks, a tower of comic books, and a model plane built together over iced tea.

‘Okay, Keith,’ said Dina. ‘Which one do you want to go on?’

‘Huh?’ The fairground din rushed at Keith with such suddenness and ferocity he had to blink stars from his eyes and shake his head like a wet dog.

Rudy pointed at the little kid rides arranged around them: a mini train, teacups and a helter-skelter. To their right, a young mother hefted a hammer and brought it down with a loud clang. Keith flinched. Bells rang and her two children yelled and danced around her. A gang of older children raced past them, howling excitedly.

‘I want to come with you,’ Keith said.

Rudy rolled his eyes, while Dina made a face like she was trying to hold in a fart.

‘You can’t come with us,’ said Rudy. ‘You’re too small and you’ll only be in the way. Now which ride do you want? Choose quickly or I’ll put you in one.’

Keith shrank inside his yellow coat and surveyed his options with wide eyes. He didn’t want to go by himself. Children dipped and spun in their pairs or groups, and nowhere did he see another child with nobody for company. He looked first at Dina, then Rudy. ‘I don’t want to,’ he said.

‘Goddamnit,’ said Rudy and stepped forward, scooping Keith up by his armpits. Keith’s boxy coat rose past his ears and his feet dangled uselessly in the air. The air smelled like metal and oil.

‘Rudy!’ Dina protested, though weakly. ‘If dad finds out we’re dead.’

‘He won’t find out, ‘cause Keith won’t tell him. Right Keith?’ asked Rudy, dropping Keith onto a hard bench within a giant teacup. ‘A big baby ride for a big baby.’ He threw $10 into Keith’s lap. ‘Just keep going until we’re back.’

‘And don’t move,’ urged Dina.

‘And don’t move,’ echoed Rudy. ‘Let’s go.’ And they were off.

A deafening bell rang and the ride shunted into motion. Keith slid along the bench and lay against the plastic wall of the teacup. Melted snow seeped through his trousers and soaked his behind. He shifted in place and saw kids laughing and hooting in the other cups. Parents looked on, snapping pictures and waving. One woman waved at Keith encouragingly. He tried to wave back, but lost his grip on the wall and slid to the other side of the bench as the cup rose and spun. When he found her in the crowd again, she was whispering to her partner and gesturing towards him. Shameful heat scorched his skin from top to toe, and he shrank down beneath the lip of the teacup. He knew this feeling well enough by now, but he wouldn’t learn its name for many years to come: humiliation. He wasn’t a nobody. He didn’t come from nothing. He had a home, and a father, and a good dog named Bessie who never barked and always ate her dinner up. He had those things. He was a somebody. And even if he didn’t and he wasn’t, what did that matter? He was a human being, wasn’t he? Just like anybody else.

‘Is everybody having a happy ho-ho-holiday?’ boomed a voice across the chaos of the fairground. Cheers erupted from all directions. The announcer continued, picking out his favourite winter outfits and winning uproarious cheers when he asked if people were ready for Santa Claus. Keith folded his arms and barely managed to keep himself from tumbling off the bench. He gripped onto the lip of the cup again, sniffing sourly. Santa wasn’t real.

_Those kids in your class didn’t get more stuff ‘cause they’re better than you, Keith. Their folks just have more money. Don’t mean you’re any less. Don’t mean you’re any less at all. I’m giving you these presents because you deserve them, and knowing that honest-to-God made me skip into work every day this year. Such a great kid. You have no idea how special you are. I wish you knew. God, I wish I could tell you._

‘Do you all have your tickets ready?’ the announcer asked, ‘for the Christmas Bumper Raffle?’ More cheers.

Keith closed his eyes; saw the smiling stilt walker, her grand coat and the perfect rectangle of the ticket bearing his birthday.

‘The winning number is–’

Keith pressed his hands against his ears and the noises around him tuned-out to a cotton fuzz. He didn’t need to hear the winning number. He already knew.

**Author's Note:**

> I seriously headcannon working class Keith (coming from a working class background myself). I LOVE that we have a central, complex character in a children's show that isn't from a typical middle class background. You go, Keith!
> 
> I will seriously try to write a nice answer to this fic with older Keith.
> 
> Get at me at http://froldgapp.tumblr.com


End file.
